


Maybe Someday

by DaughterofElros



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Guitar, House Sitting, M/M, Plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofElros/pseuds/DaughterofElros
Summary: Alex asks Michael to water his plants while he's out of town for work.Michael might be better suited for this tasks than he even realizes.Written for the "Michael is a Grower" prompt on the Roswell 18+ Discord. (A prompt which I inadvertently inspired by virtue of being on my usual bullshit of having a lot of feels about Michael Guerin and plants)
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 41
Kudos: 113
Collections: Michael Guerin is a Grower





	Maybe Someday

It’s nice that Alex leaves him a key.

They both know he doesn’t need it— can open locks with his mind. But its about the symbolism of it- the boundaries and invitations represented by the physical object. He like the feel of it in his hand too- flat metal that glints in the desert sun, warms to the touch.

He adds it to his key-ring to one side of the long-broken leather tag that used to serve as decoration. He’ll need to give it back again before too long, so no sense in making it hard to locate.

He’d been surprised when Alex had asked him to check on his house, water his plants while he’s gone. It’s not that Alex doesn’t travel for work. He’s just only gone for three or four days at a time, and that’s not long enough for the plants to need water or the house to need checking on. Alex has security cameras for that. He doesn’t rely on people for that the way other folks do.

And Michael isn’t among the people he relies on, even if he were going to.

But Alex has also signaled that the way things are aren’t the way things have to be. That there must be ways through the tangled mess of who they are to each other. What they are to each other. Friends, but not quite. Lovers, but both not anymore and not yet. 

If Michael had to describe what he and Alex are, he’d say “maybe someday.”

In fact, that’s exactly what he had said last week, when Isobel was grilling him about “are you two ever going to figure your nonsense out?”

Maybe someday.

And maybe today isn’t exactly someday, but it’s something. It’s something that he’d stopped at the Crashdown when he saw Alex’s car, felt a little thrill of recognition and happiness. Something that he’d dropped onto a stool at the counter beside him, made an effort to say something friendly, to be friends, talk about upcoming plans, get the update on the latest impending crisis. Something that he’d chatted with Rosa when she comes by to refill their coffees while Alex is telling him that he’s going to be out of town for a week and a half on another training mission in Virginia, then for some tests for the new prosthesis down in Texas, and it felt…comfortable in that moment. Thinking about it, he’s right back in that moment, feeling a little bit surprised by how alright this all feels, how much the new paradigms don’t make him feel shifty and unsettled, itchy under the collar. It’s been while since change hasn’t felt like something to dread.

“Michael could do it,” Rosa puts in as she pours, with a grin that tells him he’s not necessarily going to love what he’s being volunteered for. But then, when does he?

“He could,” Alex agrees levelly. “If he wants to.”

“He’s right there,” Rosa points out. “You should ask him. I mean, now it’s awkward if you don’t.” The grin she shoots him is triumphant, and sassy as fuck.

“What exactly is it that Michael could do?” he asks, turning back to Alex as Rosa disappears into the kitchen with another smug grin and a toss of her head.

“It’s not a big deal, but…I could use someone to come in and water my houseplants a couple times while I’m away. I asked Rosa, but she told me that she has a black thumb and would- and I quote- “kill them deader than I used to be.”

Michael ducks his head to laugh at that, is relieved to see that Alex is grinning too.

“Yeah, I could do that,” he finds himself saying, despite having very little working knowledge of what plants need. Alex’s eyes widen.

“Yeah?” he asks. “That would be great. I leave tomorrow, so… I can drop a key off to you before I head to the airport.

“That works,” Michael had agreed. Which is how he signed up to become plant-sitter extraordinaire, and why he’s standing here now with a key glinting in the palm of his hand, and an invitation to enter Alex’s house in his absence.

  
He waits until the next morning to go, because it seems strange to rush right over. Like he’s snooping or something. Which is ridiculous, because he has a key, and an alarm code, and an invitation, but but he still feels antsy about it. Like access to Alex’s home is something he’s been entrusted with, and he needs to protect it, not overuse the privilege.

He waits until almost sunset, the dry tops of the long grass near the driveway catching the golden rays of light, the adobe walls inside bouncing enough indirect illumination around that he doesn’t need to flip the switch and change the calm, cool color temperature in the room.

There’s a list of the plants on the table, when they need to be watered and rooms they’re in precisely notated. There’s even a note about the fungus that one seems to have, and the spray Alex has mixed up in case he sees any signs of it. Apparently none of the plants need water yet, but he checks the plant with the fungus issue. Sure enough, there are spots on some of its leaves. He sprays the spray like the instructions say, hopes he doesn’t fail at this plant-sitting thing.

He comes back two days later when it’s probably time to water, checks all the soil, waters them carefully except for one in the kitchen that doesn’t seem to need it yet. He checks the long-leafed one in the living room and is dismayed to find more spots of mildew. Maybe he needs to spray it every day? Not like he can’t do that.

He takes out his phone though, snaps a picture of one of the plants and texts it to Alex, let’s him know things are okay. He doesn’t expect much of a text back, what with Alex being on a military base somewhere, but the smiley face emoji he gets, and then the potted plant that follows it are enough to reassure him that Alex is okay. He feels something ease in him with the knowledge that Alex hasn’t been kidnapped. Just because Jesse Manes is gone doesn’t that Michael likes it when Alex leaves town. Who knows what kinds of shitty people are out there. Roswell apparently has enough of them per capita that, extrapolating out, he views the rest of the world with a dose of healthy suspicion.

He looks at the ailing plant again, feels a twist in his chest. This is something Alex cares about, something he’s taken care with. He wants the fragile little thing to survive. He reaches out, brushes the thick leaf, lets it slide between his fingers, wishes he could do something.

Sanders has told him about how his Mom was good with plants. 

Over beers by the fire awhile back, he’d talked about how she made an entire field grow overnight, in the middle of a drought, without batting an eyelash. His skills of ‘smashing things around’ and ‘picking locks with his brain’ don’t seem like they’re in the same vein. Instead he just kind of…thinks good thoughts at it, kind of talks to it in his mind, tells it to hang in there. He feels incredibly foolish, but there’s no one but him there to know, so he adds in a little bit in the mental conversation about how Alex wants this little green living thing to survive, and it would be nice if it could, and he believes in it.

All of which goes to show how far gone from reason he gets where Alex Manes is concerned.

With a sigh, he drops down on the couch, scrubs his face with his hands. His eye catches the guitar to his right- a nice one that Alex must have bought more recently. He certainly has more of them around than he ever used to. Tentatively, he reaches a finger out, touches its slick-smooth surface. He lets his thumb strum across the strings, lets his eyes drift closed as the sound of their reverberation fills the room with familiar sound. He debates picking it up, trying to play it. It feels like an imposition though, so he lets his hand drop, lets the notes fade.

Leaning in the opposite corner of the room though…it’s the only one of the four guitars still in a case, not on a stand. He gets to his feet, approaches it and sinks into a crouch before it. He’s pretty sure… he reaches out to touch the nylon case, zipper jingling as his fingertips brush it. Pretty sure that this is the guitar Alex had tried to give him, that he’d thrust back in frustration and anger and setting boundaries he isn’t at all sure he still wants. It’s here, sitting prominently where anyone walking in the door can see it.

His fingers itch, and he reaches for the zipper.

  
The instrument is familiar in his hands, comfortable in his grip as he rocks back on his heels, stands up. He hopes Alex won’t mind.

Settling down on the sofa again, he gives it an experimental strum, lets the notes fall and die in the air, like sparks sent up from the pop of a log on a campfire. He spends some time tuning it, fiddling with it, but before long, he can start picking out notes, stringing together phrases that begin to merge into actual music. 

He sinks into it, the music swirling and eddying within him, flowing into his fingertips as his memory of how to play stretches and re-awakens.

He closes his eyes, sinks into it, feels himself get centered and grounded the way Maria and Isobel both talk about when they do their yoga-type stuff. 

It’s different for Alex, he knows. Alex talks about how music lets him come alive. For Michael, music lets him settle in to being that way. It holds everything else at bay, lets him think, lets him feel.

He doesn’t try to play a specific song. He noodles instead, choosing the chords that feel right, the tempo that works. He nods along to the music he creates, lets his thoughts float free- Alex, the little plant that’s struggling, things he has to get done at the junkyard, everything that’s going on with Max and Isobel, the text messages he’s been failing to return, if he should go over to Isobel’s like she told him he could, let her order them fajitas for dinner and drink wine and beer on her patio. All of that slips away, fades to leave room for him to think.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s almost fully dark outside. There’s a light on on the end table— Alex must have it on a timer— and outside of that pool of light, the room is cloaked in twilight shadows, a few white accents from pottery and knicknacks slightly brighter against the gloom. He’s lost track of time. His hands hurt, and his body protests a bit as he stands, puts the guitar back in the bag, sets it back where he found it. He looks around, making sure that everything is exactly the way Alex had left it, looks at the struggling plant as he grabs the keys to lock the door and set the alarm as he goes and sends it some more good thoughts on his way out.

He has some free time the next day, so he comes back to check on things. He checks the yard, the outside of the house, makes sure nothing went awry in the some the higher winds they’d gotten late the night before, then heads into the house itself. The plant looks a little better. He checks on it, tells it it’s doing a good job, sprays the solution again.

His fingers itch to play the guitar, and even though he tries to shake the feeling off, he ends up taking it out of its case, playing a little bit more.

He does it the next day too.

He ends up going every day that Alex is gone.

At first he thinks it’s his imagination, wishful thinking, but… the troubled plant is doing better. Day four of him coming over to play guitar, serenade Alex’s plants and empty house, it starts putting out new leaves. Two days later, he realizes that all the plants have new growth, bigger leaves. Even the ones that were already healthy and flourishing look like they’re living their best life.

By the day Alex gets home, the new growth is distinctly noticeable.

Michael goes over one last time to make sure everything is ready for Alex to come home. He only plays for fifteen minutes that day, since he told Sanders he wouldn’t be gone long, but he can’t resist. He plays songs that make him think “Goodbye” and “I’ll see you again” because it feels like that’s what the plants need to hear. He checks the soil on each one, saving the plant in the living room for last, tells it an extra goodbye in his mind, rubs the sturdy leaves once more- now deep, brilliant green and free of fungus, their waxy luster restored.

  
Alex texts that evening when he’s on his way home. Michael tells him he can stop by to return his key after he finishes working on the last car of the day. He heads over there at sunset, purple sky visible through the windshield.

Alex is sitting on the patio, waves him over, offers him a beer and a seat. He sits uneasily. From his vantage point, he can see the edge of the bay window where his favorite plant lives.

“Thank you,” Alex says. “The plants…they look amazing. Better than when I left.” Michael shrugs, not sure what to say.

“Just doing my part,” he finally says.

“More than that,” Alex’s voice is soft, infused with quiet warmth that out him a little bit at ease. “I saw you, on the cameras sometimes. Playing the guitar.”

Michael tenses.

“Sorry if that’s…”

“No, it’s okay!” Alex cuts him off. His eyes widen earnestly, flutter back to normal. “More than okay. That guitar…it’s still yours, any time you want it.”

Michael nods.

“You…played guitar, and all the plants grew more in a week than they normally do in six months.” The expression on his face says that’s significant. Alex clearly has a point that he’s dancing around. “Thank you.”

Michael shakes his head.

“It wasn’t anything much. I just…tried to take care of them, because they matter to you.”

“You made them stronger than they had been. Made them what they could be.” Alex at him curiously now, head titled assessingly. “It that…something with your powers, your telekenesis?”

Michael shrugs helplessly. 

“I don’t know.” Before Alex an doubt him he adds, “I really don’t.” He reaches for the words, drops his focus to the bottle in his hands every time it feels like too much to meet Alex’s eyes. “Maybe? Sanders said my Mom, she could do stuff with plants. Make them grow, get them ready to harvest overnight. I just…wanted them to be okay, to be here for you when you got home. Which uh…now that you are, I should get out of your hair.” He pulls the key from his pocket, sets it on the table.

Alex’s smile is rueful.

“We used to like being in each other’s hair,” he observes.

Michael remembers it- his hands in Alex’s hair, Alex’s hands in his, overwhelming tides of pleasure, their lips on each other in more ways than one. More than a decade ago, just over a year ago.

“Yeah. We did.” He searches Alex’s eyes. Maybe one day they will again. Alex meets his eyes levelly. 

“Keep the key, Guerin.” He slides it back across the table slowly, his eyes never straying from Michael’s. “For whenever you need it. Whenever you’re ready.”

He nods again, can’t figure out what words to say. But he keeps the key, pockets it. It feels like it’s burning a hole there as he walks back to his truck, tips his had before he climbs into the cab. 

Every time he looks back, Alex is still looking in his direction.


End file.
